Rescued
Title: Rescued by Love
Author: aneuhaus
Rating: NC17-IK/other,IK/NS
Warnings: NonCon, 60's slang
This story would not be posted here if not for TinTurtle's determination and Alnywa's encouragement.
As good as the shower felt, Napoleon had more pressing matters to attend to. He twisted the knobs to stop the flow of water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stepped out of the cubicle. From the corner of his eye, he saw his partner emerge at the same time, completely naked.
Napoleon would never admit it out loud, but he took every available opportunity to admire his partner's physique. Where he tended to a bit of thickness around the waist, if he wasn't careful; Illya ate everything that wouldn't eat him first, yet still had a trim waist that tapered down from surprisingly broad shoulders. The muscles of his arms and legs didn't bulge obviously, but his appendages were beautifully sculpted and, Napoleon knew from experience, hard as the proverbial rock. His best feature, though, in Napoleon's opinion, was the perfect backside that was now swaying gently as Illya strode toward his locker.
Napoleon's eyes traveled up his partner's lean back, toward his most obvious attribute - his shiny, and overly long, sunshine golden hair. The progress of his eyes was abruptly halted, however, by the sight of several fairly new bruises that Napoleon couldn't account for.
The main purpose of today's workout had been to help stave off the atrophic effects, on mind and body, of not having seen any action for going on eight days, now. The bruises were dark purple - not the reddish color of fresh contusions - so they were at least a day or two old, which ruled out today's activities.
Napoleon couldn't help being curious, so he asked, "I.K., what's up with your back?"
Illya looked over his shoulder, as if he could see what Napoleon was referring to, and then raised a querying eyebrow. Realization suddenly dawned in the blue eyes, followed quickly by something else Napoleon couldn't identify. If it had been anyone else, he would have tagged it as fear; but, since he had never seen that particular emotion in those cool depths, he couldn't be certain. Besides, it didn't make any sense, and it was gone practically before it appeared.
"Oh, that," Illya replied off handedly, in his uniquely accented baritone. "Carl was showing me some new judo holds."
Carl Becker was the martial arts instructor for U.N.C.L.E. Known to be overzealous and a bit sadistic, it was entirely feasible that he could have inflicted such injuries in the line of duty. The odd thing, though, was the lack of marks on the Russian agent's arms and legs, since those areas of the body typically took the brunt of the action in judo.
Such a vague answer from anyone else would have been a cause for concern. Any answer from Illya to a personal question, however, was a joy unto itself; so Napoleon decided to let it go for now, in favor of meeting Waverly's deadline for the annual personnel attrition report. Besides, Illya had never lied to him before, that he knew of; at least, not about anything important. And, if anything in this world was important to Napoleon Solo, it was his handsome, intelligent, pain-in-the-ass partner.
The following afternoon, report still unfinished, Napoleon was on a plane to Istanbul; Illya snoring softly beside him. The stewardesses were both pretty, so he was dividing his flirting between them.
Napoleon supposed that his love of flirting was what had earned him his reputation as a skirt chaser. He was a man who enjoyed the chase; but, more times than not, a few dances, a few drinks, and a kiss at the door was the sum of the evening. He truly liked women - their laugh, their conversation, the way they dressed up and made up to please men, their curves and softness - but he got tired of always being the seducer; the leader; the taker. He was tired of always being in control. He liked the mutual give and take of being with a man, even if he could never really let his guard down with any of them. He could only imagine the bliss of, just once, snuggling into a lover's arms, sated and weary; and drowsing peacefully for several hours without fear of being tied up, stabbed, shot, or, worst of all, injected with some hideous chemical.
Besides, discretion was so necessary that he rarely had the opportunity to be with a man, and with good reason. The day he joined U.N.C.L.E., New York, Waverly had looked at his file for several minutes and then warned him, among other things, that he had better never once hear about Napoleon’s admitted “perversions” or he would be out on his ear.
His thoughts were interrupted by a strange noise beside him. He looked over at his sleeping partner, whose head was tossing rapidly, back and forth, on the small airline pillow. What really caught his attention, though, was Illya's face. His eyes were scrunched up tightly, as though he was in physical or emotional torment, and his mouth hung open in a silent scream. Napoleon had shared enough hotel rooms with his partner to know that it wasn't unusual for both of them to have nightmares after a particularly gruesome incident; but their last affair was a week and a half ago, and it had gone off without a hitch. No, something else had to be causing this. Whatever it was, watching the results gripped Napoleon's suddenly frozen heart like a vice.
"Illya," he called softly and nudged the nearby arm with his elbow.
The sleeping man came, abruptly, wide awake; hair askew and eyes wild. Napoleon was unaccountably overwhelmed with the desire to take Illya into his arms and comfort him as he would a frightened child. The impulse was quelled when he remembered where they were, and he was surprised at the calming effect, on both of them, of finger combing Illya’s hair back into some semblance of order.
"Are you alright?" Napoleon asked quietly, so as not to draw attention.
"I am always alright, Napoleon. It was just a dream. I am fine now, thank you." The quaver in Illya's voice and the disquiet lingering in his eyes belied his words.
Napoleon knew that any attempt to get Illya to open up to him now would only end badly; and a rift between them could cause a personal conflict that may get one, or both, of them killed in Istanbul. When there was time, he would take him out for a drink or twelve to soften him up, and then see if he could find out what was going on.
======================================
Five days later, the THRUSH satrap was destroyed, the nuclear physicist safely in U.N.C.L.E.'s tender care, the Innocent on a plane back to Fort Worth; and two weary U.N.C.L.E. agents were getting into a cab at JFK airport.
“Where do you want to go for our celebratory drink?” Napoleon asked. “How about Nick’s? It’s on the way.”
“Uh, I, ah, can’t.” Illya stammered, and Napoleon frowned. It had been their habit, for years, to have a drink upon arriving back in New York after a successful mission; usually at Nick’s, unless one of them knew of a new place they wanted to try. Besides, Illya didn’t stammer.
“Nick’s it is, then,” Napoleon chattered on as though Illya had agreed.
He hated to railroad his partner, but he simply had to get to the bottom of this. Up till now, whatever was bothering Illya hadn’t affected his performance on the job; but it would only take one small lapse in concentration to get himself, or both of them, killed.
Nick greeted them when they entered and ushered them to their usual table in the back corner, where their backs were to the wall and they could see the only entrance to the place. There was no need for them to order, and the glasses of cold vodka and single malt were delivered in record time.
Napoleon cleared his throat. “Um, Illya, I’ve been noticing that you haven’t been quite yourself of late. I was just wondering if something is troubling you.”
Illya looked up from his drink, and alarm shot through his eyes before he was able to school his face into passivity.
“Nothing is wrong, Napoleon… at least, nothing you can help me with,” he said slowly. It’s only that I am struggling with a decision that I must soon make, and it is preying on my mind.”
Decision? So, something was being kept from him. Was Waverly thinking of sending Illya somewhere? Was Illya planning on leaving U.N.C.L.E? He would have to do some snooping around headquarters. After all, he was a spy.
“Well,” he said with a smile, “if you need someone to talk to, or if I can help in any way, all you need to do is ask.”
In answer, the corners of Illya’s mouth turned up, nearly imperceptibly. As if suddenly remembering where he was, he looked at his watch, and Napoleon was amazed to see alarm register, again, on the handsome face. Illya downed his drink in one gulp.
“Let’s go, Napoleon.” he nearly pleaded, “I’m very tired, and Mr. Waverly wants our mission report by ten, tomorrow morning.”
He was halfway out of the bar before Napoleon could bolt his drink and throw some money on the table.
======================================
“Good morning,” Napoleon greeted his partner as he walked into their shared office, promptly at eight o’clock, to find him already at his desk, working on their report.
“Morning,” he barely mumbled without lifting his head.
“Somebody didn’t have his coffee this morning,” Napoleon replied through a grin. “Shall I go get you a cup?”
Illya did look up at that. “No,” he responded forcefully. “You always put too much sugar in it. I’ll get it, myself.”
He stood to move from behind his desk and Napoleon’s mouth dropped open. “Illya,” he declared emphatically, moving toward his partner, “what happened to you?”
Illya looked up to see Napoleon staring at his back and, out of the corner of his eye, caught a glimpse of a red smear on the back of his chair.
“Your shirt has blood on it,” Napoleon was saying, conditioned response urging his hand toward his Walther. “What happened?”
When Illya didn’t answer, Napoleon grabbed his shocked partner by the arm, turned him around, and began to pull his shirt tail out of his pants. He pushed the blood streaked cotton up as far as it would go, and gasped. Illya’s back was covered with bruises and angry red welts, as though someone had beaten him with a strap. In some places, the skin was broken and bleeding where the wounds were the deepest. Napoleon hadn’t seen anything like it since Mother Fear had gotten hold of him.
“Wow, IK, somebody sure worked you over,” he announced in an awed tone. “Who did this to you?”
Still, no answer.
“All right,” Napoleon conceded for the moment, “we won’t discuss it right now, but this needs to be tended to. Will you go to medical on your own, or must I escort you?”
Illya wrested himself from Napoleon’s grasp and turned to face him. For the third time, Napoleon saw the alarm in his eyes, and his heart constricted. Obviously, there was some reason Illya didn’t want this reported; but why? If it was anyone else, Napoleon would have been suspicious by now; but this was Illya: his partner, his best friend, his protector and conscience.
“Tell you what,” he said softly, “we’ll go to your place, okay?”
Illya’s eyes widened and he slowly shook his head, but he still didn’t make a sound.
“How about my place then?” Napoleon soothed. “I pretty much have an entire pharmacy there, any way. How does that sound?”
Illya’s head continued to shake from side to side, and the impossibly large eyes took on the look of a wild rabbit caught in a trap. Napoleon was really beginning to get worried.
“I’m sorry, Illya,” he said, more firmly, “it’s either that or medical, even if I have to have security take you down there. I can’t risk your getting an infection and being God-knows-how-long out of commission.”
Finally, finally, Illya’s mouth moved. “Your place, then,” he murmured, but the wild rabbit look remained.
=====================================
After Napoleon cleaned Illya’s back and covered it with antibiotic ointment and bandages, he installed him on the sofa with a large glass of vodka in his hand.
“Now, Partner,” he began sternly, “tell me what this is all about. Who beat you, and why?”
Illya studied his shoes for a few moments, and then lifted his face to look into his best friend’s eyes. “All I can tell you is this: I am unable to answer your question.”
“Why?” Napoleon growled.
“Because,” Illya explained, “I would, first, have to reveal certain things about myself that I am not certain you wish to know.” Then he tilted his head, for all the world as if someone was whispering something in his ear. “Know this, though. No matter what happens, you have been my true and good friend and I lo… I care for you more than I can say. Thank you for seeing to my back, and for the drink. Now I must go.”
Napoleon could only stare as his friend walked out the door.
======================================
He didn’t sleep at all that night. Two beatings, now, plus Illya’s reluctance to give him any answers; it just didn’t add up. His first inclination, of course, was to suspect T.H.R.U.S.H., but there was no point in repeatedly beating Illya and then letting him go. Besides, there would be no reason for him to be so afraid of someone finding out. There was always the possibility of his being drugged, of course, but Illya didn’t show any indication of being chemically altered.
Napoleon was so distracted the next morning that, as he drove into the U.N.C.L.E. parking garage, he found himself wondering how he had gotten there. Any other morning, he would have heard the footsteps behind him before the punch hit his left kidney. He twisted his body as he went down, in order to see who his assailant was; but it was difficult to focus on the face as it swam in front of him. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was a deep, angry voice, saying, “Take that, Solo.”
When he came to, Jim Dobo and Charlie Sanders were pulling him to his feet. Glad he was still in the garage, instead of some T.H.R.U.S.H. cell, he took quick stock of himself. Besides the sore kidney, it quickly became obvious that he had been kicked, hard, in the genitals. Fortunately, the guy didn’t seem to have wanted to incapacitate him. He had breached, and conquered, enemy strongholds with worse injuries.
“Thanks, fellas. I’m fine, now,” he smiled at the two Section Three agents, who looked at each other and shrugged as he limped away.
Thirty minutes later found Napoleon at his desk, poring over photos of every man in U.N.C.L.E.’s records that was aged thirty to forty-five, over six feet tall and about a hundred and eighty-five pounds, with dark hair and eyes. There were hundreds, and he didn’t exactly get a good look at the guy, but his determination was up to the task. What really had him worried was that the attacker knew his name. That had to mean something.
When his communicator chirped, he was amazed to see that it was almost ten o’clock. Before answering his pen, he spared a moment to wonder where his ever punctual partner was.
“Solo, here,” he spoke into the miniature microphone.
“Napoleon,” the female voice purred, “Mr. Waverly would like to see you in his office right away.”
Napoleon smoothed his voice and answered, “I’ll be there with bells on, Heather.” He slid into his jacket as the office door slid open.
“Mr. Solo, have a seat.” Waverly was getting right down to business, which made Napoleon uneasy. “I was wondering, Mr. Solo, if you would have any idea why I received this request from Mr. Kuryakin in this morning’s interoffice mail.”
Napoleon took the slip of paper from Waverly’s hand and nearly choked. It was a standard HR-32-WP - a request for a new partner.
When he could speak, seconds or hours later, he answered, “No, Sir, I have no idea.”
“Well,” Waverly’s voice became paternal, “I was hoping he had discussed this with you, but I can see that it comes as much of a surprise to you as it does to me.”
“Yes, Sir,” Napoleon managed to force his voice into some sort of normality.
“I must say that,” Waverly continued, “personal feelings aside, that this causes quite a dilemma for me. The thought of breaking up my best team is very distressing. On the other hand, to force any agent to work with someone against his will could be disastrous.”
Napoleon, having gained his composure, replied, “I certainly wish that I could shed some light on the situation, Sir, but I must admit that I am as baffled as you are.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that. You will let me know if you find out anything, won’t you?” Waverly asked, with bushy eyebrows raised. “In the meantime, I think I will ignore this request for a few days. Thank you, Mr. Solo.”
He had been dismissed, so he headed back to his office to, one, see if Illya was in yet and, two, look at the rest of those photos. If he could find out who had assaulted him that morning, perhaps it would be a clue as to what was going on with his partner. Wait, did that make any sense? Napoleon shrugged. After all, what had, the past couple of days?
Six hundred and twenty-nine photos later, all the faces were beginning to look the same. Besides, the rumbles in his stomach told him it must be lunch time.
Sure enough, the wall clock read twelve thirty-two; and, suddenly, another feeling lodged in his gut when he realized his partner still hadn’t shown up. Illya would have let him know if he had been sent on a mission and, as CEA, security would have notified him if he had called in sick or wounded. Lunch forgotten, he grabbed his jacket and nearly ran out the door, Hell bent for Illya’s apartment.
When they were first partnered, Napoleon and Illya had exchanged apartment keys, just in case, but neither had ever had a reason to use them. After their doorbell ring/knock/doorbell ring code brought no answer, Napoleon decided that now was the time, and slid the key into the lock.
In the living room, a chair and a lamp had been knocked over; and the kitchen table was upturned, the remnants of breakfast strewn across the floor. A creak and a thump came from the bedroom, so Napoleon quietly pulled his special from its shoulder holster and walked soundlessly toward the door. The bed was unmade but, otherwise, the room was tidy… and empty. Then he heard another thump, quieter this time, on the other side of the bed. Making his way cautiously, he finally found what he was looking for.
Illya was hunched in the corner, naked, and apparently frightened to the point of near hysterics. Napoleon could only remember having seen him this way once; when he and that air-headed Raven girl had inhaled the T.H.R.U.S.H. fear gas. However, this time, recognition - and relief- dawned on Illya’s face almost immediately, and he dropped his head onto his knees; but not before Napoleon saw the damage. Illya’s face was black and blue, and both of his eyes were swollen nearly shut.
“Who did this, Illya?” Napoleon asked with venom in his voice.
When he didn’t acknowledge the question, Napoleon knelt in front of Illya and placed a hand on his shoulder. He whimpered slightly, and Napoleon couldn’t keep from wrapping his arms around him and rocking him gently.
He slid his arms under Illya’s knees, picked him up, and laid him on the bed; careful not to cause too much discomfort to his still sore back. Then he disappeared, returning in a few minutes with a glass of water, a couple of left over Secanol from the medicine cabinet, and some ice wrapped in a dish towel. He poked the tablets through Illya’s swollen lips and poured as much water, most of which ended up on the pillow, as he could behind them. Then he laid the makeshift ice pack over Illya’s eyes.
“Blease, go away,” Illya whispered through swollen lips, as though he was afraid to speak out loud.
“Since when have I ever left you when you were in trouble, Tovaricsch? The only difference, now, is that I usually know what the trouble is.” Napoleon lifted the ice pack and looked at Illya’s battered face. “I seem to have made it my life’s work to be your knight in shining armor,” he smiled to ease the tension he felt radiating from his partner, “but I can’t battle evil when I don’t know where it’s coming from. I need you to talk to me. You have always trusted me before; now I find out that you are trying to run away from me. I don’t see how it could be possible, but is it something I have done that has brought all this about? Is that why you have requested a new partner?
Now that he had put it into words, the hurt and anguish of the situation overcame him, and a single tear escaped from his right eye. Illya’s hand cupped his cheek and his thumb wiped the tear away, an unbearably tender gesture that left Napoleon’s knees weak.
Illya knew that Napoleon cared about him, but he had never imagined that his personal difficulties could have such an effect on him. He had seen this man shot; stabbed; beaten; drugged; stood before firing squads; and nearly hacked in two; but never had he seen him cry. The damage to his face made speaking painful and his words barely recognizable; but speak, he decided, he must. No matter what he was going through, his friend did not deserve this.
“Naboweon,” he muttered through the pain, “I wih teh you eberydin, mud dalging hurdz a gread deaw. Id mighd be better iv you az me quezionz and led me anzwer dem.”
Napoleon sighed with relief. “All right, Partner. That works for me. First of all, answer the question I just asked. Who did this to you?”
It warmed Illya’s heart that, with all the mysteries that must be whirling around in his head, Napoleon’s first concern was for Illya’s physical well being.
“Id wad Bictor Mardin. He ad I hab…”
“Marton?” Napoleon interrupted him. “The Paris office reported last year that Marton had been shot, in London, trying to steal the crown jewels.”
“Illya’s eyes slid closed, briefly, in frustration. “No, nod Mardon, Mardin! Bictor Mardin. We hab been…” he lifted his chin in that determined way he had when all hope seemed lost, “lobers bor eighd modz.”
Napoleon was nonplussed. “Then, the bruises I saw on you in the locker room, your back, and now this… he did all this? Your lover?”
As Illya nodded his head in the affirmative, the name finally sunk in. Victor Martin was the CIA agent that headed the security detail that had worked in tandem with U.N.C.L.E., to protect the newly elected Tunisian president when he came to New York to sign the U.N. agreement.
As much as it hurt Illya to talk, he had to know just one more thing. “If you have been lovers, then why…?
“Dealouz.” Illya grimaced with the effort.
“Jealous?” Napoleon interpreted. “Is there someone else?”
Illya nodded his head. “You,” he whispered, his eyes sliding closed as the pain killers began to take effect.
Abruptly, Napoleon realized the adrenaline, that had started pumping the moment he unlocked Illya’s front door, had seeped away; and that, coupled with lack of sleep, had left him exhausted. Besides, he couldn’t leave Illya in his vulnerable state; so he shucked out of his jacket and shoulder holster, removed his tie, and laid all three on the bedside table. He then carefully worked the sheet and blanket out from under Illya, who was dead to the world, and climbed into the bed beside his partner, covering them both and falling asleep immediately.
He was rudely awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder.
“Napoleon!” Well, the pain killers were working, as evidenced by the fact that Illya was speaking English again, if a bit gingerly. “Napoleon,” he hissed, “you have to get out of here. It’s five fifteen, and Victor will be here any minute. He always comes by after work. He’ll kill you if he finds you here. Napoleon!”
“All right, Illya, I’m awake,” Napoleon answered gruffly, and then his brow furrowed. “But what will he do to you?” he asked worriedly.
“Nothing, if he doesn’t know you have been here,” Illya answered, and pointed to his own face. “He only did this because he found out I was at your place yesterday. Everything will be fine, now, as long as I stay away from you. Please, Napoleon, you have to go.”
“Wait just a damn minute,” Napoleon’s voice was incredulous. “He beats you because he’s jealous of me? So that was the big decision you had to make - him or me? And that’s why you requested a new partner, isn’t it?”
There was no answer.
“Isn’t it!” he nearly yelled.
“Yes, now you really must go. Please,” Illya begged.
Napoleon was mesmerized with disbelief. He had shared every desperate situation imaginable with this man, but never before had he seen him tremble with fear as he was doing now. He was brought back to himself by the sound of a deadbolt snicking open, and Illya nearly jumped off the bed.
“Napoleon, hide,” he whispered hoarsely.
Napoleon grabbed his things from the table and slid under the bed, sparing a moment to be surprised, and glad, that Illya was such a good housekeeper. He heard the front door close and a pair of heavy footfalls move toward the bedroom before they stopped in the doorway.
“Oh, Illya,” crooned a deep, mellow voice, “look at your pretty face. Does it hurt much?”
That voice! Napoleon was positive that this was the same man that attacked him in the parking garage.
Illya didn’t answer, and the feet walked around the bed, which squeaked when Victor sat down beside him. It took every ounce of Napoleon’s self control to remain where he was.
“My poor baby,” the voice continued, “I’m so sorry. I just get so jealous of that Solo. I hate the way he acts as though he owns you, the way he looks at you and touches you all the time. It makes me crazy when you go away with him for days and weeks on end.”
“Victor,” Illya mollified, “he is my partner and my friend; that is all.”
“I know that,” Victor sighed, “and you know that, but I’m not entirely certain that he knows that.”
“Well,” Illya rejoined, “I have been thinking long and hard for the past few days and, yesterday, I submitted a request for a new partner.”
Victor clapped his hands. “Oh, Illya, you have made me so happy!” he cackled.
“Ow,” Illya yelped.
“Sorry, Baby,” Victor apologized. “I forgot about your lips.”
“Uhhh,” Illya groaned.
“Oops, your back too, huh?” Victor was beginning to sound a bit exasperated. “Tell you what. I’ll just lay down with you for a while. Maybe I should spend the night, just in case you need anything.”
“No, Victor, really, I would rather be alone and just rest.” A note of distress crept into Illya’s voice, but Napoleon doubted if anyone but he would have noticed.
“All right, Sweetheart, if that’s the way you want it.” Napoleon inwardly sighed with relief. “I’ll call you later to make sure you’re okay,” Victor said, as he audibly kissed Illya somewhere, before heading out the door.
Napoleon scooted out of his hiding place, nearly upturning a huge vase of red roses that hadn’t been on the dresser before. He took Victor’s seat on the edge of the bed and looked down at his partner; whose eyes were now tightly closed as if he were trying to shut out the world. Napoleon’s mind was reeling with thoughts and feelings he had never had before, but there was still so much to figure out.
“Illya…”
“Not now, Napoleon,” Illya interrupted irritatedly; then his voice softened. “I will be in the office tomorrow. We will talk then, all right?”
“All right, my friend,” Napoleon answered contritely, gazing intently at Illya’s bruised and swollen face Anger burst behind his eyes like sky rockets, giving him the courage to voice the unspoken question. “Illya, I need to know why you stay with someone who treats you this way.”
Illya hesitated for a moment before answering, “Because I love him.”
======================================
On his way home, Napoleon realized he hadn’t eaten all day, so he stopped at his favorite deli to pick up something. The corned beef sandwich, sitting on the car seat beside him, smelled heavenly; but, when he sat down at the kitchen table and bit into it, it tasted like saw dust in his mouth.
Exhausted from stress and lack of sleep, he lay down on the sofa to try to make some sense of recent events. Okay, so his best friend was homosexual. Small world, huh? Obviously, that was the secret that was important to Illya; not that he was being beaten and belittled by someone who claimed to love him. He thought back to the scene in Illya’s bedroom. If any other man had dared to be as condescending and patronizing to him as Martin had been, he would have left them in a bloody heap; but he was a completely different person with his lover. Frankly, it scared Napoleon to see his partner so docile and - dare he think it? - meek with any
one; it was simply too contrary to his nature. Illya had never shied away from physical pain, so the beatings weren’t the cause of his unusual behavior.
As Napoleon’s mind continued to drift, he felt a pang of regret at the memory that Illya hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him that he was queer. If he had, things might be very different, now. His train of thought led Napoleon to realize that he hadn’t, exactly, been completely forthright either. ‘Coward’, he berated himself. Hopefully, there would, somehow, be a chance to rectify that situation.
He was surprised when the ringing of the phone woke him, fifteen minutes later, from a fitful doze. His first panicked thought was that it was Illya and he was in trouble, but Illya would have used his communicator. He calmed himself and picked up the receiver. All he could hear, on the other end, was a banging noise; as though someone was trying to demolish a room somewhere. Then, that voice he knew so well, whispered, “Napoleon…” before the line went dead. Napoleon’s heart froze and ice water ran through his veins. He grabbed his keys, wallet, and gun belt from the bar and tore out the front door, praying to whatever god might be listening that he would be in time.
The first indication that something was wrong was that Illya’s front door was ajar. Napoleon drew his special and pushed the door open warily. On the floor lay an U.N.C.L.E. communicator that had been neatly snapped in two. So that’s why Illya had used the telephone.
Napoleon cleared the living room and kitchen, and then walked toward the bedroom, where he could hear something that sounded like someone rocking in a rocking chair. He followed the sound until he stood in the bedroom door, looking in. What he saw would have dropped him to his knees if he hadn’t been galvanized by a double shot of adrenaline from fear and rage.
Illya was naked and bent double over the footboard of the bed. Martin was standing behind him, fully clothed, except for the open fly of his navy blue gabardine trousers. He was buried to the hilt in Illya’s ass and giving him the pounding of a lifetime. A brief glance could have mistaken the scene as one of intimacy; except for the blood dripping onto the sheet under Illya’s face, and his grunts of pain every time Martin drove into him. Without thought or mercy, Napoleon raised his special, aimed just above below Martin’s jawbone, and fired.
Martin stiffened and then slumped, motionless, on top of Illya. Napoleon pulled the lifeless man off, and out, of his partner, noticing the small trail of blood as Martin’s still erect penis pulled free. Napoleon found a brief moment to regret that his gun was only loaded with sleep darts.
Illya groaned again, a sound of unequivocal pain and misery. Napoleon carefully placed his hands under Illya’s shoulders and lifted him to his feet, until his nude body was flush against him, his arms gently encircling his chest.
“Partner,” he spoke directly into Illya’s ear, “this can’t go on. I spend the majority of my time trying to keep exactly these kinds of things from happening to you, and I can’t stand by and watch you suffer any longer. I am taking you to medical now and we can deal with the consequences later. You can walk or I can carry you, the choice is yours.”
“It’s alright, Napoleon,” Illya slurred through bleeding lips, “I will walk.” At which, he promptly passed out in Napoleon’s arms.
Napoleon scooped him up, laid him on the bed, and wrapped him in the soft, blue comforter. He then picked him up again and carried him to his car for the short ride to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters medical department. Not only could they see to Illya’s wounds and give him something to ease the pain, but he would be safe there. All of U.N.C.L.E., New York, was a veritable fortress, and not even Mr. Waverly could penetrate the entrance to medical if they didn’t want him to.
=====================================
When Illya awoke, he knew he wasn’t at home because it was too quiet; no sounds of traffic and children playing on the sidewalk outside his window. What he did hear were mechanical beeps and hums, never a good sign. He opened his eyes a slit; and recognizing a room in U.N.C.L.E.’s medical department, sighed with relief. He then heard a low guttural noise and, curious, turned his head toward it; to find his partner, uncomfortably and endearingly, slumped and snoring in a hard plastic chair. As if a sixth sense had prodded him, Napoleon opened his eyes and smiled.
“Hey, Partner, how are you feeling?” he asked gently.
Illya tried to smile back, but his lips were still too swollen and painful. “I feel much better, Napoleon, thank you,” he said, because he did. The doctor must have given him something to ease the pain.
“Good, I’m glad.” Napoleon rose from the chair and came to stand beside the hospital bed. “The doctor looked at you,” he explained, “and you’re not too badly hurt. There was no tearing, and your back isn’t infected, but the bruises and gashes are deep and will take a while to heal. It looks like you’ll… Illya?”
…but Illya was fast asleep. Napoleon ran his fingers, gently and lovingly, over the damaged face. Anger boiled in his gullet, even as the icy fingers of fear clutched at his soul, causing him to flush hot and cold. The realization smacked him in the back of the head, that this diminutive bull terrier of a man was the dearest thing to his heart in the whole world. In an instant, he had resolved two things: to do whatever it took to free Illya from this monster and, once that was accomplished, to make certain that there was no misunderstanding between them as to his feelings for his partner.
Unwilling to analyze the possible consequences of what he was about to do, he grabbed his jacket and car keys and left to pay a visit to an old friend.
=====================================
Except for that single excursion, Napoleon only left Illya’s bedside to eat and shower. He didn’t question his friend while he was in medical; knowing that he needed time to heal, physically and mentally. The emotional healing could take years.
On the morning of the third day, Dr. Samuels pronounced Illya fit to go home. Napoleon followed behind the wheelchair, but was pushed roughly away when he tried to help his partner into the passenger seat of the car.
That was rude,” he grumbled good-naturedly, as he pulled out of the U.N.C.L.E. parking garage.
“You don’t understand,” Illya replied with a sigh. “Victor is CIA.”
“Yeah, you told me that already. So?” Then a light bulb flashed on in Napoleon’s head. “I see,” he nodded. “He has you watched. I was wondering how he knew when we were together.”
Illya heaved another sigh, closed his eyes, and laid his head against the seat back; remaining that way for the remainder of the trip. When the car came to a halt, a scathing glare accompanied the realization that they were parked in front of Napoleon’s apartment building instead of his, but he maintained his silence.
He knew that the showdown would have to come, sooner or later; knew it that day he got out of the shower and Napoleon asked him about the bruises. That had been a really stupid thing to do, but he had been high on endorphins from the strenuous workout. He had also been distracted all that morning, reliving the previous night’s make up sex with Victor. Napoleon always teased him about being so meticulous; but this situation was proof that, whenever he wasn’t, there were always repercussions.
He turned and looked at Napoleon, who was, in turn, looking at him with a concerned frown on his face. Illya sat down on the sofa, folded his arms, and said, “Go ahead.”
“What?” Napoleon dropped onto the sofa as though his body was made of lead. “What do you mean, go ahead?”
“I have come to terms with the fact that this is something we can’t just sweep under the carpet.” Illya was the picture or resignation. “I owe it to you, as my partner and my friend, to answer any questions you may have so we can move on.”
“Alright, why didn’t you tell me?” Napoleon spoke very quietly, as though afraid he would spook his friend.
“Because I didn’t want you to think badly of me,” Illya answered honestly. He hesitated, as though he were about to dive into freezing water. “First of all,” he continued, “you now know that I am a homosexual - well, bisexual, really. In the orphanage, then in the KGB training camp, and then in the GRU, I was housed with all males. So, as I matured, my sexual experiences were forcibly limited to boys, and then men. In Paris and Cambridge, and since then, there have been women; but I largely prefer men. Does that answer your questions on that score?”
Napoleon waved his hand in dismissal. “I don’t care about that.” He continued as Illya’s eyebrows crept into his bangs. “What concerns me is that you’ve been hiding a potentially dangerous situation from me.”
“Well,” Illya replied slowly, “I would have had to reveal… the other thing. Besides, I didn’t expect it to escalate the way it did. It never has before.”
Napoleon’s eyes widened and a flush flamed his face. “You mean this has happened before?” he asked, incredulous.
“Every now and again, and only when I do something wrong,” Illya reassured. “It is always my fault,” he added.”
Napoleon had heard the term ‘gob-smacked’ before, but he hadn’t truly understood what it meant until now.
“Illya,” Napoleon near whispered, “do you honestly believe that anything you could ever do would cause someone who loves you to beat and rape you?”
Illya’s head dropped for a moment and, when he lifted it again, the battle that was raging in his soul was clear to see.
“I will try only once to explain this to you,” he said in a sing-song voice, as though he were reciting poetry. “There are many and varied reasons why I am with Victor. Being CIA, he understands the nature of the work I do. He knows that I cannot speak to him about many facets of my job, just as he cannot speak to me about his. He understands that our relationship must be circumspect at all times. That is of utmost importance to me, second only to the fact that he loves me. Except for the times that I anger him, he is kind and gentle. He brings me gifts, he cooks for me, and he is a skilled and generous lover. Finally, were it not for him, there would be…” a sob interrupted the narrative.
“…no one,” Napoleon supplied, as he moved closer to his partner and enfolded him in his arms. “Only, that’s not true. You have me.”
“I know, Tovarisch.” Illya’s voice was muffled against Napoleon’s shoulder. “You are the best friend I have ever had, and I appreciate all you do for me, but I need more.”
“You can have more,” Napoleon answered, matter of factly.
Illya looked up, surprised, but surprise gave way to anger. “I should have known,” he accused. “That is just like you, Napoleon. You have found out that I like men, so now you are curious, right? It’s just the same as when you sleep with women like Serena and Angelique. You are always experimenting; always looking for the next dangerous thrill. Well, I refuse to be just another one of your conquests, to be used and then thrown away!”
Illya wasn’t’ sure what he expected Napoleon’s reaction to be; anger, perhaps, or regret. What he hadn’t expected, though, was pure, unadulterated dejection.
“Illya,” he all but pleaded, “I understand that your opinion of me is based entirely on my past record, but think about it rationally. You have just defended a man who has, not only, hurt and humiliated you; but has kept you an emotional prisoner. On the other hand, you verbally assaulted someone who has, time after time, placed your well being above duty, self, and others. Which of these sounds like love to you?”
Illya’s smile held no mirth. “Are you trying to tell me that you love me? Are you saying that you love me the way Victor does?”
“No,” Napoleon answered vehemently. “I am telling you that I love you in a way that Victor never could. Who could possibly understand your profession better than I? And I would have been dead ages ago if I hadn’t reached some level of proficiency in being circumspect. Hell, it’s a way of life for both of us. Besides, love shouldn’t cause pain. It should make you feel confident and safe. It should create a haven for you from the rest of the world. I’m not saying that it’s a perfect state of being - nothing is - but it should never cause you to cower in fear. Instead, your lover’s arms should the one place where you can find peace and understanding.”
“This all sounds very nice,” Illya acknowledged sadly, “but it isn’t as easy as you may think. Even if I tried to leave him, Victor would, most likely, kill me; or worse, you.”
Napoleon swallowed hard, and finally managed to push the words past the lump in his throat. “I, uh, sort of took care of that,” he croaked.
Illya’s jaw tensed and his hands curled into fists. “What did you do, Napoleon?” he ground out between clenched teeth.
Napoleon unconsciously backed away a few steps before answering. “While you were in medical, I paid a visit to an old college chum, Eric Jamieson.”
Illya spluttered ineffectually for a moment. “You mean, Victor’s superior?” he demanded, eyes wide.
“Yeah.” Napoleon mentally steeled himself.
“So now,” Illya spoke through bared teeth, “a CIA Division Chief not only knows that I am have sex with men; but, also, that one of his men physically and sexually abused me?” Now he was shouting. “Is this what you call love, Napoleon? IS THIS MAKING ME FEEL ‘CONFIDENT AND SAFE’?”
He spun on his heel and started for the front door, feeling that his life was in tatters. After all, what was left when he, apparently, couldn’t go back to Victor; and could no longer trust Napoleon? Only one thing could have halted his mad dash for the street.
“Illya,” his partner’s voice was rife with desperation, stopping him in his tracks. “Please,” Napoleon begged, “let me explain.”
Illya remained motionless, forcing Napoleon to speak to his back, but his partner refused to be put off.
“First of all,” Napoleon said, soothingly, “I didn’t tell Eric who you are. I didn’t even tell him it was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. I simply said that Martin had assaulted a very close friend of mine, and that I had seen the evidence.”
Illya’s shoulders relaxed a little, but he didn’t turn around. “What will they do to him?”
“He has been transferred,” Napoleon answered. “He will be on a plane to DC tomorrow morning and, until then, he is being carefully watched. If he comes anywhere near here, he will be returned to his new home; forcibly, if necessary. The main reason I brought you here, instead of your place, is because I gave Eric my address as the one to be surveilled.”
Illya still showed no sign of acquiescing. “So, what is the difference between Victor trying to control my life or you trying to control my life?”
“Illya, I would never hurt you in any way,” Napoleon entreated, “and I would certainly never try to control you. I knew that, if something wasn’t done by the time you were released from medical, there was a possibility that Victor would find you. I was terrified that, next time, I wouldn’t get to you soon enough.”
Finally, Illya turned to face his partner, a multitude of emotions chasing each other across his face in a split second; surprise, regret, longing, sorrow, and understanding, some of the ones Napoleon recognized. It gave him courage to continue.
“You mean everything to me, Illya. I have been yours for a very long time; I just never stood still long enough to see it. Now that I have, I want to spend the rest of my life making you mine. I want to show you how love should be.
He leered - just a little - and Illya’s face softened, but still looked troubled.
“Even if all you say is true,” he reproached gently, “I still find it difficult to believe that you are serious. I think that your concern for my welfare, for which I am grateful, has caused you to confuse friendship and pity with love. After all, you are the most rampantly heterosexual person I have ever come into contact with.”
Napoleon winked. “Perhaps I have a few secrets of my own,” he said drily. He could see the exact moment that understanding dawned on his partner’s face.
“Look,” Napoleon continued, “I understand why it’s difficult for you to trust me in this area, and I can’t even promise you that it will work out, but we have a good head start. You know me better than anyone ever has, and I think I know you, pretty well, too. We enjoy each other’s company, and we have proven that we are each willing to sacrifice for the other. Actually, I can only think of one unknown between us. Personally, I’m willing to get that out of the way right now, if you are.”
“Show me,” Illya challenged, a real smile blooming on his lips.
Napoleon wasted not a second, but slid one hand into the baby soft hair at the nape of Illya’s neck and wound one arm around his waist, pulling him close. He hesitated for a brief second, breathing in the familiar scent of his partner, and then pressed their lips together. There were no fireworks or sparks of electricity, no bells ringing; but a rightness, a knowing that this was what he had been searching for - that the Serena’s and the Angelique’s, and all the rest, were a desperate attempt to fill that aching void in his soul that he hadn’t, until recently, realized was even there. How about that? The solution had been right under his nose for the past four years.
He had a momentary thought to tell Illya, but then Illya opened his mouth and Napoleon’s tongue slid into it as though it belonged there, and all thought fled except for pleasing this man in his arms; not only right now, but for the rest of his life.
======================================
Napoleon was half awakened by the early morning sun in his eyes. It always shone directly into the bedroom window at this time of year. He rolled over to avoid it and encountered a warm lump that smelled of sex and sweat. Now he was fully awake and smiling.
Memories of last night caused his morning erection to harden even further. He had found the fireworks, all in shades of blue, in Illya’s eyes; the electricity had sparked between their bodies as his lover moved inside him, the lightning flashing and the thunder clapping as they came simultaneously; bells pealed quietly, but joyfully, as they snuggled together, basking in the afterglow; kissing and whispering sweet, filthy words of love.
Illya stirred, interrupting his reverie. “What’s for breakfast?” he mumbled sleepily.
Napoleon ruffled the disheveled blond hair. “Are you nothing but one big stomach?” he chuckled.
“I would think,” Illya stated imperiously, “that, after last night, you would know better.”
Abruptly, he turned and looked at the bedside clock, then jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “I have to go in early today,” he called over his shoulder, in explanation.
“How come?” Napoleon demanded petulantly; his fantasy of an encore of last night’s performance, before work, disappearing in a puff of smoke.
“I want to catch The Old Man before things start hopping.” he replied. “I need to talk him into allowing me to withdraw that HR-32-WP form.”
The reminder that Illya had, if only briefly, wanted to push him out of his life caused the corners of Napoleon’s mouth to droop into a frown. Although he didn’t envy him the task of standing under their boss’s scrutinizing gaze, trying to explain his reason for submitting the requisition; he wasn’t overly concerned that Waverly would hold Illya to his request. After all, he did say that he would sit on it for a few days, and he didn’t seem all that keen on splitting them up.
It did rankle, though, that Illya had chosen Victor over himself. He obviously hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time, still…
Illya stopped in the doorway on his way back into the bedroom to retrieve his scattered clothing. It took his quick mind but a few seconds to put two and two - his previous remark and the look on Napoleon’s face - together, and come up with the fact that he needed to set one last thing to rights.
“Napoleon,” he called softly, “I have a confession to make. When you asked me about my request for a new partner, I thought it would be easier for both of us if I let you believe that I preferred Victor’s presence in my life to yours. That was never the case. The reason I wanted to dissolve our partnership was to protect you. Every time Victor found out we were together, his anger was fiercer and more violent than the time before. I couldn’t go on living with the idea that he may, at any time, turn on you.
A miniscule amount of left over disquiet slipped briefly onto Illya’s countenance, making Napoleon glad he hadn’t mentioned the attack in the parking garage, and causing him to resolve that he never would.
“It’s funny,’ Illya continued, “after our first affair together, I made a silent pledge that, should it ever become necessary, I would gladly make the ultimate sacrifice for you. Until I signed my name to that form, I believed my life to be that sacrifice. However, the handful of hours during which I had given away all rights to you showed me otherwise. I fear that I may never find the strength to endure that again.”
“Illya,” Napoleon breathed, and moved to wrap his arms around his, still naked, partner. “Are you saying that you love me?”
Illya lifted his head and gazed into the warm chocolate eyes. “Did I forget to mention that?” he grinned, and then his face grew very serious. “Yes, Napoleon, I love you. And thank you for rescuing me, yet again.”
“Well, that’s a first, “Napoleon quipped, feigning bewilderment. “You have never thanked me before, unless you were exercising your infamous flair for sarcasm.”
“I know.” Illya grew thoughtful. "This time is different, though. Up until now, you have rescued me from physical pain and, even, death. Physical pain is temporary, and can be endured; and I accepted, long ago, that it is unlikely I shall ever have need of my pension fund.” Glittering indigo met pensive sienna in a moment of purest empathy. “I had many happy hours with Victor, and I know that he truly loved me; but when his jealousy began to show itself… well, the best way I can explain it is to relate a recurring nightmare that began about six months ago.”
“I am all alone, in the middle of an endless ocean. It is completely still and quiet, except for the nerve rending monotony of the lapping water. It feels as though I have been there for a very long time. There is nothing in sight, except for one lone, metal pole, to which I am desperately clinging. Every now and then a boat materializes, as if by magic. It circles around me for a few minutes, close enough that I could reach out and touch it, as if taunting me. I move to let go of my pole - for I have been bereft of any other stability for so long, I think of it as mine - in an effort to grab onto the boat. At my slightest movement, the pole sprouts two very long, sharp nails that pierce my hands and trap me there. The pain in my hands, however, is always eclipsed by the pain in my heart, as the boat stops circling and I watch it disappear over the horizon. I am overwhelmed with sadness to know that, although the boat will keep returning, it will always go away again; leaving me nothing but the pole, to which I must cling to keep from drowning.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and fell silent.
“Is that the dream you had on the plane to Istanbul?” Napoleon asked, his voice subdued and Illya still firmly ensconced in his embrace.
Illya nodded his head, as if the long narrative had exhausted him.
“You know,” Napoleon grinned slightly, “I have been called a lot of things before, but never a boat.”
“That is a very astute observance,” Illya answered, a hint of surprise in his voice.
“Well,” Napoleon replied, “I don’t know how ‘astute’ I’ve been. There’s one thing you can count on, though. I’ve stopped circling.”
“And I,” Illya stopped to punctuate his thought with a quick kiss, “have let go of that pole.”
Author: aneuhaus
Rating: NC17-IK/other,IK/NS
Warnings: NonCon, 60's slang
This story would not be posted here if not for TinTurtle's determination and Alnywa's encouragement.
As good as the shower felt, Napoleon had more pressing matters to attend to. He twisted the knobs to stop the flow of water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stepped out of the cubicle. From the corner of his eye, he saw his partner emerge at the same time, completely naked.
Napoleon would never admit it out loud, but he took every available opportunity to admire his partner's physique. Where he tended to a bit of thickness around the waist, if he wasn't careful; Illya ate everything that wouldn't eat him first, yet still had a trim waist that tapered down from surprisingly broad shoulders. The muscles of his arms and legs didn't bulge obviously, but his appendages were beautifully sculpted and, Napoleon knew from experience, hard as the proverbial rock. His best feature, though, in Napoleon's opinion, was the perfect backside that was now swaying gently as Illya strode toward his locker.
Napoleon's eyes traveled up his partner's lean back, toward his most obvious attribute - his shiny, and overly long, sunshine golden hair. The progress of his eyes was abruptly halted, however, by the sight of several fairly new bruises that Napoleon couldn't account for.
The main purpose of today's workout had been to help stave off the atrophic effects, on mind and body, of not having seen any action for going on eight days, now. The bruises were dark purple - not the reddish color of fresh contusions - so they were at least a day or two old, which ruled out today's activities.
Napoleon couldn't help being curious, so he asked, "I.K., what's up with your back?"
Illya looked over his shoulder, as if he could see what Napoleon was referring to, and then raised a querying eyebrow. Realization suddenly dawned in the blue eyes, followed quickly by something else Napoleon couldn't identify. If it had been anyone else, he would have tagged it as fear; but, since he had never seen that particular emotion in those cool depths, he couldn't be certain. Besides, it didn't make any sense, and it was gone practically before it appeared.
"Oh, that," Illya replied off handedly, in his uniquely accented baritone. "Carl was showing me some new judo holds."
Carl Becker was the martial arts instructor for U.N.C.L.E. Known to be overzealous and a bit sadistic, it was entirely feasible that he could have inflicted such injuries in the line of duty. The odd thing, though, was the lack of marks on the Russian agent's arms and legs, since those areas of the body typically took the brunt of the action in judo.
Such a vague answer from anyone else would have been a cause for concern. Any answer from Illya to a personal question, however, was a joy unto itself; so Napoleon decided to let it go for now, in favor of meeting Waverly's deadline for the annual personnel attrition report. Besides, Illya had never lied to him before, that he knew of; at least, not about anything important. And, if anything in this world was important to Napoleon Solo, it was his handsome, intelligent, pain-in-the-ass partner.
The following afternoon, report still unfinished, Napoleon was on a plane to Istanbul; Illya snoring softly beside him. The stewardesses were both pretty, so he was dividing his flirting between them.
Napoleon supposed that his love of flirting was what had earned him his reputation as a skirt chaser. He was a man who enjoyed the chase; but, more times than not, a few dances, a few drinks, and a kiss at the door was the sum of the evening. He truly liked women - their laugh, their conversation, the way they dressed up and made up to please men, their curves and softness - but he got tired of always being the seducer; the leader; the taker. He was tired of always being in control. He liked the mutual give and take of being with a man, even if he could never really let his guard down with any of them. He could only imagine the bliss of, just once, snuggling into a lover's arms, sated and weary; and drowsing peacefully for several hours without fear of being tied up, stabbed, shot, or, worst of all, injected with some hideous chemical.
Besides, discretion was so necessary that he rarely had the opportunity to be with a man, and with good reason. The day he joined U.N.C.L.E., New York, Waverly had looked at his file for several minutes and then warned him, among other things, that he had better never once hear about Napoleon’s admitted “perversions” or he would be out on his ear.
His thoughts were interrupted by a strange noise beside him. He looked over at his sleeping partner, whose head was tossing rapidly, back and forth, on the small airline pillow. What really caught his attention, though, was Illya's face. His eyes were scrunched up tightly, as though he was in physical or emotional torment, and his mouth hung open in a silent scream. Napoleon had shared enough hotel rooms with his partner to know that it wasn't unusual for both of them to have nightmares after a particularly gruesome incident; but their last affair was a week and a half ago, and it had gone off without a hitch. No, something else had to be causing this. Whatever it was, watching the results gripped Napoleon's suddenly frozen heart like a vice.
"Illya," he called softly and nudged the nearby arm with his elbow.
The sleeping man came, abruptly, wide awake; hair askew and eyes wild. Napoleon was unaccountably overwhelmed with the desire to take Illya into his arms and comfort him as he would a frightened child. The impulse was quelled when he remembered where they were, and he was surprised at the calming effect, on both of them, of finger combing Illya’s hair back into some semblance of order.
"Are you alright?" Napoleon asked quietly, so as not to draw attention.
"I am always alright, Napoleon. It was just a dream. I am fine now, thank you." The quaver in Illya's voice and the disquiet lingering in his eyes belied his words.
Napoleon knew that any attempt to get Illya to open up to him now would only end badly; and a rift between them could cause a personal conflict that may get one, or both, of them killed in Istanbul. When there was time, he would take him out for a drink or twelve to soften him up, and then see if he could find out what was going on.
======================================
Five days later, the THRUSH satrap was destroyed, the nuclear physicist safely in U.N.C.L.E.'s tender care, the Innocent on a plane back to Fort Worth; and two weary U.N.C.L.E. agents were getting into a cab at JFK airport.
“Where do you want to go for our celebratory drink?” Napoleon asked. “How about Nick’s? It’s on the way.”
“Uh, I, ah, can’t.” Illya stammered, and Napoleon frowned. It had been their habit, for years, to have a drink upon arriving back in New York after a successful mission; usually at Nick’s, unless one of them knew of a new place they wanted to try. Besides, Illya didn’t stammer.
“Nick’s it is, then,” Napoleon chattered on as though Illya had agreed.
He hated to railroad his partner, but he simply had to get to the bottom of this. Up till now, whatever was bothering Illya hadn’t affected his performance on the job; but it would only take one small lapse in concentration to get himself, or both of them, killed.
Nick greeted them when they entered and ushered them to their usual table in the back corner, where their backs were to the wall and they could see the only entrance to the place. There was no need for them to order, and the glasses of cold vodka and single malt were delivered in record time.
Napoleon cleared his throat. “Um, Illya, I’ve been noticing that you haven’t been quite yourself of late. I was just wondering if something is troubling you.”
Illya looked up from his drink, and alarm shot through his eyes before he was able to school his face into passivity.
“Nothing is wrong, Napoleon… at least, nothing you can help me with,” he said slowly. It’s only that I am struggling with a decision that I must soon make, and it is preying on my mind.”
Decision? So, something was being kept from him. Was Waverly thinking of sending Illya somewhere? Was Illya planning on leaving U.N.C.L.E? He would have to do some snooping around headquarters. After all, he was a spy.
“Well,” he said with a smile, “if you need someone to talk to, or if I can help in any way, all you need to do is ask.”
In answer, the corners of Illya’s mouth turned up, nearly imperceptibly. As if suddenly remembering where he was, he looked at his watch, and Napoleon was amazed to see alarm register, again, on the handsome face. Illya downed his drink in one gulp.
“Let’s go, Napoleon.” he nearly pleaded, “I’m very tired, and Mr. Waverly wants our mission report by ten, tomorrow morning.”
He was halfway out of the bar before Napoleon could bolt his drink and throw some money on the table.
======================================
“Good morning,” Napoleon greeted his partner as he walked into their shared office, promptly at eight o’clock, to find him already at his desk, working on their report.
“Morning,” he barely mumbled without lifting his head.
“Somebody didn’t have his coffee this morning,” Napoleon replied through a grin. “Shall I go get you a cup?”
Illya did look up at that. “No,” he responded forcefully. “You always put too much sugar in it. I’ll get it, myself.”
He stood to move from behind his desk and Napoleon’s mouth dropped open. “Illya,” he declared emphatically, moving toward his partner, “what happened to you?”
Illya looked up to see Napoleon staring at his back and, out of the corner of his eye, caught a glimpse of a red smear on the back of his chair.
“Your shirt has blood on it,” Napoleon was saying, conditioned response urging his hand toward his Walther. “What happened?”
When Illya didn’t answer, Napoleon grabbed his shocked partner by the arm, turned him around, and began to pull his shirt tail out of his pants. He pushed the blood streaked cotton up as far as it would go, and gasped. Illya’s back was covered with bruises and angry red welts, as though someone had beaten him with a strap. In some places, the skin was broken and bleeding where the wounds were the deepest. Napoleon hadn’t seen anything like it since Mother Fear had gotten hold of him.
“Wow, IK, somebody sure worked you over,” he announced in an awed tone. “Who did this to you?”
Still, no answer.
“All right,” Napoleon conceded for the moment, “we won’t discuss it right now, but this needs to be tended to. Will you go to medical on your own, or must I escort you?”
Illya wrested himself from Napoleon’s grasp and turned to face him. For the third time, Napoleon saw the alarm in his eyes, and his heart constricted. Obviously, there was some reason Illya didn’t want this reported; but why? If it was anyone else, Napoleon would have been suspicious by now; but this was Illya: his partner, his best friend, his protector and conscience.
“Tell you what,” he said softly, “we’ll go to your place, okay?”
Illya’s eyes widened and he slowly shook his head, but he still didn’t make a sound.
“How about my place then?” Napoleon soothed. “I pretty much have an entire pharmacy there, any way. How does that sound?”
Illya’s head continued to shake from side to side, and the impossibly large eyes took on the look of a wild rabbit caught in a trap. Napoleon was really beginning to get worried.
“I’m sorry, Illya,” he said, more firmly, “it’s either that or medical, even if I have to have security take you down there. I can’t risk your getting an infection and being God-knows-how-long out of commission.”
Finally, finally, Illya’s mouth moved. “Your place, then,” he murmured, but the wild rabbit look remained.
=====================================
After Napoleon cleaned Illya’s back and covered it with antibiotic ointment and bandages, he installed him on the sofa with a large glass of vodka in his hand.
“Now, Partner,” he began sternly, “tell me what this is all about. Who beat you, and why?”
Illya studied his shoes for a few moments, and then lifted his face to look into his best friend’s eyes. “All I can tell you is this: I am unable to answer your question.”
“Why?” Napoleon growled.
“Because,” Illya explained, “I would, first, have to reveal certain things about myself that I am not certain you wish to know.” Then he tilted his head, for all the world as if someone was whispering something in his ear. “Know this, though. No matter what happens, you have been my true and good friend and I lo… I care for you more than I can say. Thank you for seeing to my back, and for the drink. Now I must go.”
Napoleon could only stare as his friend walked out the door.
======================================
He didn’t sleep at all that night. Two beatings, now, plus Illya’s reluctance to give him any answers; it just didn’t add up. His first inclination, of course, was to suspect T.H.R.U.S.H., but there was no point in repeatedly beating Illya and then letting him go. Besides, there would be no reason for him to be so afraid of someone finding out. There was always the possibility of his being drugged, of course, but Illya didn’t show any indication of being chemically altered.
Napoleon was so distracted the next morning that, as he drove into the U.N.C.L.E. parking garage, he found himself wondering how he had gotten there. Any other morning, he would have heard the footsteps behind him before the punch hit his left kidney. He twisted his body as he went down, in order to see who his assailant was; but it was difficult to focus on the face as it swam in front of him. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was a deep, angry voice, saying, “Take that, Solo.”
When he came to, Jim Dobo and Charlie Sanders were pulling him to his feet. Glad he was still in the garage, instead of some T.H.R.U.S.H. cell, he took quick stock of himself. Besides the sore kidney, it quickly became obvious that he had been kicked, hard, in the genitals. Fortunately, the guy didn’t seem to have wanted to incapacitate him. He had breached, and conquered, enemy strongholds with worse injuries.
“Thanks, fellas. I’m fine, now,” he smiled at the two Section Three agents, who looked at each other and shrugged as he limped away.
Thirty minutes later found Napoleon at his desk, poring over photos of every man in U.N.C.L.E.’s records that was aged thirty to forty-five, over six feet tall and about a hundred and eighty-five pounds, with dark hair and eyes. There were hundreds, and he didn’t exactly get a good look at the guy, but his determination was up to the task. What really had him worried was that the attacker knew his name. That had to mean something.
When his communicator chirped, he was amazed to see that it was almost ten o’clock. Before answering his pen, he spared a moment to wonder where his ever punctual partner was.
“Solo, here,” he spoke into the miniature microphone.
“Napoleon,” the female voice purred, “Mr. Waverly would like to see you in his office right away.”
Napoleon smoothed his voice and answered, “I’ll be there with bells on, Heather.” He slid into his jacket as the office door slid open.
“Mr. Solo, have a seat.” Waverly was getting right down to business, which made Napoleon uneasy. “I was wondering, Mr. Solo, if you would have any idea why I received this request from Mr. Kuryakin in this morning’s interoffice mail.”
Napoleon took the slip of paper from Waverly’s hand and nearly choked. It was a standard HR-32-WP - a request for a new partner.
When he could speak, seconds or hours later, he answered, “No, Sir, I have no idea.”
“Well,” Waverly’s voice became paternal, “I was hoping he had discussed this with you, but I can see that it comes as much of a surprise to you as it does to me.”
“Yes, Sir,” Napoleon managed to force his voice into some sort of normality.
“I must say that,” Waverly continued, “personal feelings aside, that this causes quite a dilemma for me. The thought of breaking up my best team is very distressing. On the other hand, to force any agent to work with someone against his will could be disastrous.”
Napoleon, having gained his composure, replied, “I certainly wish that I could shed some light on the situation, Sir, but I must admit that I am as baffled as you are.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that. You will let me know if you find out anything, won’t you?” Waverly asked, with bushy eyebrows raised. “In the meantime, I think I will ignore this request for a few days. Thank you, Mr. Solo.”
He had been dismissed, so he headed back to his office to, one, see if Illya was in yet and, two, look at the rest of those photos. If he could find out who had assaulted him that morning, perhaps it would be a clue as to what was going on with his partner. Wait, did that make any sense? Napoleon shrugged. After all, what had, the past couple of days?
Six hundred and twenty-nine photos later, all the faces were beginning to look the same. Besides, the rumbles in his stomach told him it must be lunch time.
Sure enough, the wall clock read twelve thirty-two; and, suddenly, another feeling lodged in his gut when he realized his partner still hadn’t shown up. Illya would have let him know if he had been sent on a mission and, as CEA, security would have notified him if he had called in sick or wounded. Lunch forgotten, he grabbed his jacket and nearly ran out the door, Hell bent for Illya’s apartment.
When they were first partnered, Napoleon and Illya had exchanged apartment keys, just in case, but neither had ever had a reason to use them. After their doorbell ring/knock/doorbell ring code brought no answer, Napoleon decided that now was the time, and slid the key into the lock.
In the living room, a chair and a lamp had been knocked over; and the kitchen table was upturned, the remnants of breakfast strewn across the floor. A creak and a thump came from the bedroom, so Napoleon quietly pulled his special from its shoulder holster and walked soundlessly toward the door. The bed was unmade but, otherwise, the room was tidy… and empty. Then he heard another thump, quieter this time, on the other side of the bed. Making his way cautiously, he finally found what he was looking for.
Illya was hunched in the corner, naked, and apparently frightened to the point of near hysterics. Napoleon could only remember having seen him this way once; when he and that air-headed Raven girl had inhaled the T.H.R.U.S.H. fear gas. However, this time, recognition - and relief- dawned on Illya’s face almost immediately, and he dropped his head onto his knees; but not before Napoleon saw the damage. Illya’s face was black and blue, and both of his eyes were swollen nearly shut.
“Who did this, Illya?” Napoleon asked with venom in his voice.
When he didn’t acknowledge the question, Napoleon knelt in front of Illya and placed a hand on his shoulder. He whimpered slightly, and Napoleon couldn’t keep from wrapping his arms around him and rocking him gently.
He slid his arms under Illya’s knees, picked him up, and laid him on the bed; careful not to cause too much discomfort to his still sore back. Then he disappeared, returning in a few minutes with a glass of water, a couple of left over Secanol from the medicine cabinet, and some ice wrapped in a dish towel. He poked the tablets through Illya’s swollen lips and poured as much water, most of which ended up on the pillow, as he could behind them. Then he laid the makeshift ice pack over Illya’s eyes.
“Blease, go away,” Illya whispered through swollen lips, as though he was afraid to speak out loud.
“Since when have I ever left you when you were in trouble, Tovaricsch? The only difference, now, is that I usually know what the trouble is.” Napoleon lifted the ice pack and looked at Illya’s battered face. “I seem to have made it my life’s work to be your knight in shining armor,” he smiled to ease the tension he felt radiating from his partner, “but I can’t battle evil when I don’t know where it’s coming from. I need you to talk to me. You have always trusted me before; now I find out that you are trying to run away from me. I don’t see how it could be possible, but is it something I have done that has brought all this about? Is that why you have requested a new partner?
Now that he had put it into words, the hurt and anguish of the situation overcame him, and a single tear escaped from his right eye. Illya’s hand cupped his cheek and his thumb wiped the tear away, an unbearably tender gesture that left Napoleon’s knees weak.
Illya knew that Napoleon cared about him, but he had never imagined that his personal difficulties could have such an effect on him. He had seen this man shot; stabbed; beaten; drugged; stood before firing squads; and nearly hacked in two; but never had he seen him cry. The damage to his face made speaking painful and his words barely recognizable; but speak, he decided, he must. No matter what he was going through, his friend did not deserve this.
“Naboweon,” he muttered through the pain, “I wih teh you eberydin, mud dalging hurdz a gread deaw. Id mighd be better iv you az me quezionz and led me anzwer dem.”
Napoleon sighed with relief. “All right, Partner. That works for me. First of all, answer the question I just asked. Who did this to you?”
It warmed Illya’s heart that, with all the mysteries that must be whirling around in his head, Napoleon’s first concern was for Illya’s physical well being.
“Id wad Bictor Mardin. He ad I hab…”
“Marton?” Napoleon interrupted him. “The Paris office reported last year that Marton had been shot, in London, trying to steal the crown jewels.”
“Illya’s eyes slid closed, briefly, in frustration. “No, nod Mardon, Mardin! Bictor Mardin. We hab been…” he lifted his chin in that determined way he had when all hope seemed lost, “lobers bor eighd modz.”
Napoleon was nonplussed. “Then, the bruises I saw on you in the locker room, your back, and now this… he did all this? Your lover?”
As Illya nodded his head in the affirmative, the name finally sunk in. Victor Martin was the CIA agent that headed the security detail that had worked in tandem with U.N.C.L.E., to protect the newly elected Tunisian president when he came to New York to sign the U.N. agreement.
As much as it hurt Illya to talk, he had to know just one more thing. “If you have been lovers, then why…?
“Dealouz.” Illya grimaced with the effort.
“Jealous?” Napoleon interpreted. “Is there someone else?”
Illya nodded his head. “You,” he whispered, his eyes sliding closed as the pain killers began to take effect.
Abruptly, Napoleon realized the adrenaline, that had started pumping the moment he unlocked Illya’s front door, had seeped away; and that, coupled with lack of sleep, had left him exhausted. Besides, he couldn’t leave Illya in his vulnerable state; so he shucked out of his jacket and shoulder holster, removed his tie, and laid all three on the bedside table. He then carefully worked the sheet and blanket out from under Illya, who was dead to the world, and climbed into the bed beside his partner, covering them both and falling asleep immediately.
He was rudely awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder.
“Napoleon!” Well, the pain killers were working, as evidenced by the fact that Illya was speaking English again, if a bit gingerly. “Napoleon,” he hissed, “you have to get out of here. It’s five fifteen, and Victor will be here any minute. He always comes by after work. He’ll kill you if he finds you here. Napoleon!”
“All right, Illya, I’m awake,” Napoleon answered gruffly, and then his brow furrowed. “But what will he do to you?” he asked worriedly.
“Nothing, if he doesn’t know you have been here,” Illya answered, and pointed to his own face. “He only did this because he found out I was at your place yesterday. Everything will be fine, now, as long as I stay away from you. Please, Napoleon, you have to go.”
“Wait just a damn minute,” Napoleon’s voice was incredulous. “He beats you because he’s jealous of me? So that was the big decision you had to make - him or me? And that’s why you requested a new partner, isn’t it?”
There was no answer.
“Isn’t it!” he nearly yelled.
“Yes, now you really must go. Please,” Illya begged.
Napoleon was mesmerized with disbelief. He had shared every desperate situation imaginable with this man, but never before had he seen him tremble with fear as he was doing now. He was brought back to himself by the sound of a deadbolt snicking open, and Illya nearly jumped off the bed.
“Napoleon, hide,” he whispered hoarsely.
Napoleon grabbed his things from the table and slid under the bed, sparing a moment to be surprised, and glad, that Illya was such a good housekeeper. He heard the front door close and a pair of heavy footfalls move toward the bedroom before they stopped in the doorway.
“Oh, Illya,” crooned a deep, mellow voice, “look at your pretty face. Does it hurt much?”
That voice! Napoleon was positive that this was the same man that attacked him in the parking garage.
Illya didn’t answer, and the feet walked around the bed, which squeaked when Victor sat down beside him. It took every ounce of Napoleon’s self control to remain where he was.
“My poor baby,” the voice continued, “I’m so sorry. I just get so jealous of that Solo. I hate the way he acts as though he owns you, the way he looks at you and touches you all the time. It makes me crazy when you go away with him for days and weeks on end.”
“Victor,” Illya mollified, “he is my partner and my friend; that is all.”
“I know that,” Victor sighed, “and you know that, but I’m not entirely certain that he knows that.”
“Well,” Illya rejoined, “I have been thinking long and hard for the past few days and, yesterday, I submitted a request for a new partner.”
Victor clapped his hands. “Oh, Illya, you have made me so happy!” he cackled.
“Ow,” Illya yelped.
“Sorry, Baby,” Victor apologized. “I forgot about your lips.”
“Uhhh,” Illya groaned.
“Oops, your back too, huh?” Victor was beginning to sound a bit exasperated. “Tell you what. I’ll just lay down with you for a while. Maybe I should spend the night, just in case you need anything.”
“No, Victor, really, I would rather be alone and just rest.” A note of distress crept into Illya’s voice, but Napoleon doubted if anyone but he would have noticed.
“All right, Sweetheart, if that’s the way you want it.” Napoleon inwardly sighed with relief. “I’ll call you later to make sure you’re okay,” Victor said, as he audibly kissed Illya somewhere, before heading out the door.
Napoleon scooted out of his hiding place, nearly upturning a huge vase of red roses that hadn’t been on the dresser before. He took Victor’s seat on the edge of the bed and looked down at his partner; whose eyes were now tightly closed as if he were trying to shut out the world. Napoleon’s mind was reeling with thoughts and feelings he had never had before, but there was still so much to figure out.
“Illya…”
“Not now, Napoleon,” Illya interrupted irritatedly; then his voice softened. “I will be in the office tomorrow. We will talk then, all right?”
“All right, my friend,” Napoleon answered contritely, gazing intently at Illya’s bruised and swollen face Anger burst behind his eyes like sky rockets, giving him the courage to voice the unspoken question. “Illya, I need to know why you stay with someone who treats you this way.”
Illya hesitated for a moment before answering, “Because I love him.”
======================================
On his way home, Napoleon realized he hadn’t eaten all day, so he stopped at his favorite deli to pick up something. The corned beef sandwich, sitting on the car seat beside him, smelled heavenly; but, when he sat down at the kitchen table and bit into it, it tasted like saw dust in his mouth.
Exhausted from stress and lack of sleep, he lay down on the sofa to try to make some sense of recent events. Okay, so his best friend was homosexual. Small world, huh? Obviously, that was the secret that was important to Illya; not that he was being beaten and belittled by someone who claimed to love him. He thought back to the scene in Illya’s bedroom. If any other man had dared to be as condescending and patronizing to him as Martin had been, he would have left them in a bloody heap; but he was a completely different person with his lover. Frankly, it scared Napoleon to see his partner so docile and - dare he think it? - meek with any
one; it was simply too contrary to his nature. Illya had never shied away from physical pain, so the beatings weren’t the cause of his unusual behavior.
As Napoleon’s mind continued to drift, he felt a pang of regret at the memory that Illya hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him that he was queer. If he had, things might be very different, now. His train of thought led Napoleon to realize that he hadn’t, exactly, been completely forthright either. ‘Coward’, he berated himself. Hopefully, there would, somehow, be a chance to rectify that situation.
He was surprised when the ringing of the phone woke him, fifteen minutes later, from a fitful doze. His first panicked thought was that it was Illya and he was in trouble, but Illya would have used his communicator. He calmed himself and picked up the receiver. All he could hear, on the other end, was a banging noise; as though someone was trying to demolish a room somewhere. Then, that voice he knew so well, whispered, “Napoleon…” before the line went dead. Napoleon’s heart froze and ice water ran through his veins. He grabbed his keys, wallet, and gun belt from the bar and tore out the front door, praying to whatever god might be listening that he would be in time.
The first indication that something was wrong was that Illya’s front door was ajar. Napoleon drew his special and pushed the door open warily. On the floor lay an U.N.C.L.E. communicator that had been neatly snapped in two. So that’s why Illya had used the telephone.
Napoleon cleared the living room and kitchen, and then walked toward the bedroom, where he could hear something that sounded like someone rocking in a rocking chair. He followed the sound until he stood in the bedroom door, looking in. What he saw would have dropped him to his knees if he hadn’t been galvanized by a double shot of adrenaline from fear and rage.
Illya was naked and bent double over the footboard of the bed. Martin was standing behind him, fully clothed, except for the open fly of his navy blue gabardine trousers. He was buried to the hilt in Illya’s ass and giving him the pounding of a lifetime. A brief glance could have mistaken the scene as one of intimacy; except for the blood dripping onto the sheet under Illya’s face, and his grunts of pain every time Martin drove into him. Without thought or mercy, Napoleon raised his special, aimed just above below Martin’s jawbone, and fired.
Martin stiffened and then slumped, motionless, on top of Illya. Napoleon pulled the lifeless man off, and out, of his partner, noticing the small trail of blood as Martin’s still erect penis pulled free. Napoleon found a brief moment to regret that his gun was only loaded with sleep darts.
Illya groaned again, a sound of unequivocal pain and misery. Napoleon carefully placed his hands under Illya’s shoulders and lifted him to his feet, until his nude body was flush against him, his arms gently encircling his chest.
“Partner,” he spoke directly into Illya’s ear, “this can’t go on. I spend the majority of my time trying to keep exactly these kinds of things from happening to you, and I can’t stand by and watch you suffer any longer. I am taking you to medical now and we can deal with the consequences later. You can walk or I can carry you, the choice is yours.”
“It’s alright, Napoleon,” Illya slurred through bleeding lips, “I will walk.” At which, he promptly passed out in Napoleon’s arms.
Napoleon scooped him up, laid him on the bed, and wrapped him in the soft, blue comforter. He then picked him up again and carried him to his car for the short ride to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters medical department. Not only could they see to Illya’s wounds and give him something to ease the pain, but he would be safe there. All of U.N.C.L.E., New York, was a veritable fortress, and not even Mr. Waverly could penetrate the entrance to medical if they didn’t want him to.
=====================================
When Illya awoke, he knew he wasn’t at home because it was too quiet; no sounds of traffic and children playing on the sidewalk outside his window. What he did hear were mechanical beeps and hums, never a good sign. He opened his eyes a slit; and recognizing a room in U.N.C.L.E.’s medical department, sighed with relief. He then heard a low guttural noise and, curious, turned his head toward it; to find his partner, uncomfortably and endearingly, slumped and snoring in a hard plastic chair. As if a sixth sense had prodded him, Napoleon opened his eyes and smiled.
“Hey, Partner, how are you feeling?” he asked gently.
Illya tried to smile back, but his lips were still too swollen and painful. “I feel much better, Napoleon, thank you,” he said, because he did. The doctor must have given him something to ease the pain.
“Good, I’m glad.” Napoleon rose from the chair and came to stand beside the hospital bed. “The doctor looked at you,” he explained, “and you’re not too badly hurt. There was no tearing, and your back isn’t infected, but the bruises and gashes are deep and will take a while to heal. It looks like you’ll… Illya?”
…but Illya was fast asleep. Napoleon ran his fingers, gently and lovingly, over the damaged face. Anger boiled in his gullet, even as the icy fingers of fear clutched at his soul, causing him to flush hot and cold. The realization smacked him in the back of the head, that this diminutive bull terrier of a man was the dearest thing to his heart in the whole world. In an instant, he had resolved two things: to do whatever it took to free Illya from this monster and, once that was accomplished, to make certain that there was no misunderstanding between them as to his feelings for his partner.
Unwilling to analyze the possible consequences of what he was about to do, he grabbed his jacket and car keys and left to pay a visit to an old friend.
=====================================
Except for that single excursion, Napoleon only left Illya’s bedside to eat and shower. He didn’t question his friend while he was in medical; knowing that he needed time to heal, physically and mentally. The emotional healing could take years.
On the morning of the third day, Dr. Samuels pronounced Illya fit to go home. Napoleon followed behind the wheelchair, but was pushed roughly away when he tried to help his partner into the passenger seat of the car.
That was rude,” he grumbled good-naturedly, as he pulled out of the U.N.C.L.E. parking garage.
“You don’t understand,” Illya replied with a sigh. “Victor is CIA.”
“Yeah, you told me that already. So?” Then a light bulb flashed on in Napoleon’s head. “I see,” he nodded. “He has you watched. I was wondering how he knew when we were together.”
Illya heaved another sigh, closed his eyes, and laid his head against the seat back; remaining that way for the remainder of the trip. When the car came to a halt, a scathing glare accompanied the realization that they were parked in front of Napoleon’s apartment building instead of his, but he maintained his silence.
He knew that the showdown would have to come, sooner or later; knew it that day he got out of the shower and Napoleon asked him about the bruises. That had been a really stupid thing to do, but he had been high on endorphins from the strenuous workout. He had also been distracted all that morning, reliving the previous night’s make up sex with Victor. Napoleon always teased him about being so meticulous; but this situation was proof that, whenever he wasn’t, there were always repercussions.
He turned and looked at Napoleon, who was, in turn, looking at him with a concerned frown on his face. Illya sat down on the sofa, folded his arms, and said, “Go ahead.”
“What?” Napoleon dropped onto the sofa as though his body was made of lead. “What do you mean, go ahead?”
“I have come to terms with the fact that this is something we can’t just sweep under the carpet.” Illya was the picture or resignation. “I owe it to you, as my partner and my friend, to answer any questions you may have so we can move on.”
“Alright, why didn’t you tell me?” Napoleon spoke very quietly, as though afraid he would spook his friend.
“Because I didn’t want you to think badly of me,” Illya answered honestly. He hesitated, as though he were about to dive into freezing water. “First of all,” he continued, “you now know that I am a homosexual - well, bisexual, really. In the orphanage, then in the KGB training camp, and then in the GRU, I was housed with all males. So, as I matured, my sexual experiences were forcibly limited to boys, and then men. In Paris and Cambridge, and since then, there have been women; but I largely prefer men. Does that answer your questions on that score?”
Napoleon waved his hand in dismissal. “I don’t care about that.” He continued as Illya’s eyebrows crept into his bangs. “What concerns me is that you’ve been hiding a potentially dangerous situation from me.”
“Well,” Illya replied slowly, “I would have had to reveal… the other thing. Besides, I didn’t expect it to escalate the way it did. It never has before.”
Napoleon’s eyes widened and a flush flamed his face. “You mean this has happened before?” he asked, incredulous.
“Every now and again, and only when I do something wrong,” Illya reassured. “It is always my fault,” he added.”
Napoleon had heard the term ‘gob-smacked’ before, but he hadn’t truly understood what it meant until now.
“Illya,” Napoleon near whispered, “do you honestly believe that anything you could ever do would cause someone who loves you to beat and rape you?”
Illya’s head dropped for a moment and, when he lifted it again, the battle that was raging in his soul was clear to see.
“I will try only once to explain this to you,” he said in a sing-song voice, as though he were reciting poetry. “There are many and varied reasons why I am with Victor. Being CIA, he understands the nature of the work I do. He knows that I cannot speak to him about many facets of my job, just as he cannot speak to me about his. He understands that our relationship must be circumspect at all times. That is of utmost importance to me, second only to the fact that he loves me. Except for the times that I anger him, he is kind and gentle. He brings me gifts, he cooks for me, and he is a skilled and generous lover. Finally, were it not for him, there would be…” a sob interrupted the narrative.
“…no one,” Napoleon supplied, as he moved closer to his partner and enfolded him in his arms. “Only, that’s not true. You have me.”
“I know, Tovarisch.” Illya’s voice was muffled against Napoleon’s shoulder. “You are the best friend I have ever had, and I appreciate all you do for me, but I need more.”
“You can have more,” Napoleon answered, matter of factly.
Illya looked up, surprised, but surprise gave way to anger. “I should have known,” he accused. “That is just like you, Napoleon. You have found out that I like men, so now you are curious, right? It’s just the same as when you sleep with women like Serena and Angelique. You are always experimenting; always looking for the next dangerous thrill. Well, I refuse to be just another one of your conquests, to be used and then thrown away!”
Illya wasn’t’ sure what he expected Napoleon’s reaction to be; anger, perhaps, or regret. What he hadn’t expected, though, was pure, unadulterated dejection.
“Illya,” he all but pleaded, “I understand that your opinion of me is based entirely on my past record, but think about it rationally. You have just defended a man who has, not only, hurt and humiliated you; but has kept you an emotional prisoner. On the other hand, you verbally assaulted someone who has, time after time, placed your well being above duty, self, and others. Which of these sounds like love to you?”
Illya’s smile held no mirth. “Are you trying to tell me that you love me? Are you saying that you love me the way Victor does?”
“No,” Napoleon answered vehemently. “I am telling you that I love you in a way that Victor never could. Who could possibly understand your profession better than I? And I would have been dead ages ago if I hadn’t reached some level of proficiency in being circumspect. Hell, it’s a way of life for both of us. Besides, love shouldn’t cause pain. It should make you feel confident and safe. It should create a haven for you from the rest of the world. I’m not saying that it’s a perfect state of being - nothing is - but it should never cause you to cower in fear. Instead, your lover’s arms should the one place where you can find peace and understanding.”
“This all sounds very nice,” Illya acknowledged sadly, “but it isn’t as easy as you may think. Even if I tried to leave him, Victor would, most likely, kill me; or worse, you.”
Napoleon swallowed hard, and finally managed to push the words past the lump in his throat. “I, uh, sort of took care of that,” he croaked.
Illya’s jaw tensed and his hands curled into fists. “What did you do, Napoleon?” he ground out between clenched teeth.
Napoleon unconsciously backed away a few steps before answering. “While you were in medical, I paid a visit to an old college chum, Eric Jamieson.”
Illya spluttered ineffectually for a moment. “You mean, Victor’s superior?” he demanded, eyes wide.
“Yeah.” Napoleon mentally steeled himself.
“So now,” Illya spoke through bared teeth, “a CIA Division Chief not only knows that I am have sex with men; but, also, that one of his men physically and sexually abused me?” Now he was shouting. “Is this what you call love, Napoleon? IS THIS MAKING ME FEEL ‘CONFIDENT AND SAFE’?”
He spun on his heel and started for the front door, feeling that his life was in tatters. After all, what was left when he, apparently, couldn’t go back to Victor; and could no longer trust Napoleon? Only one thing could have halted his mad dash for the street.
“Illya,” his partner’s voice was rife with desperation, stopping him in his tracks. “Please,” Napoleon begged, “let me explain.”
Illya remained motionless, forcing Napoleon to speak to his back, but his partner refused to be put off.
“First of all,” Napoleon said, soothingly, “I didn’t tell Eric who you are. I didn’t even tell him it was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. I simply said that Martin had assaulted a very close friend of mine, and that I had seen the evidence.”
Illya’s shoulders relaxed a little, but he didn’t turn around. “What will they do to him?”
“He has been transferred,” Napoleon answered. “He will be on a plane to DC tomorrow morning and, until then, he is being carefully watched. If he comes anywhere near here, he will be returned to his new home; forcibly, if necessary. The main reason I brought you here, instead of your place, is because I gave Eric my address as the one to be surveilled.”
Illya still showed no sign of acquiescing. “So, what is the difference between Victor trying to control my life or you trying to control my life?”
“Illya, I would never hurt you in any way,” Napoleon entreated, “and I would certainly never try to control you. I knew that, if something wasn’t done by the time you were released from medical, there was a possibility that Victor would find you. I was terrified that, next time, I wouldn’t get to you soon enough.”
Finally, Illya turned to face his partner, a multitude of emotions chasing each other across his face in a split second; surprise, regret, longing, sorrow, and understanding, some of the ones Napoleon recognized. It gave him courage to continue.
“You mean everything to me, Illya. I have been yours for a very long time; I just never stood still long enough to see it. Now that I have, I want to spend the rest of my life making you mine. I want to show you how love should be.
He leered - just a little - and Illya’s face softened, but still looked troubled.
“Even if all you say is true,” he reproached gently, “I still find it difficult to believe that you are serious. I think that your concern for my welfare, for which I am grateful, has caused you to confuse friendship and pity with love. After all, you are the most rampantly heterosexual person I have ever come into contact with.”
Napoleon winked. “Perhaps I have a few secrets of my own,” he said drily. He could see the exact moment that understanding dawned on his partner’s face.
“Look,” Napoleon continued, “I understand why it’s difficult for you to trust me in this area, and I can’t even promise you that it will work out, but we have a good head start. You know me better than anyone ever has, and I think I know you, pretty well, too. We enjoy each other’s company, and we have proven that we are each willing to sacrifice for the other. Actually, I can only think of one unknown between us. Personally, I’m willing to get that out of the way right now, if you are.”
“Show me,” Illya challenged, a real smile blooming on his lips.
Napoleon wasted not a second, but slid one hand into the baby soft hair at the nape of Illya’s neck and wound one arm around his waist, pulling him close. He hesitated for a brief second, breathing in the familiar scent of his partner, and then pressed their lips together. There were no fireworks or sparks of electricity, no bells ringing; but a rightness, a knowing that this was what he had been searching for - that the Serena’s and the Angelique’s, and all the rest, were a desperate attempt to fill that aching void in his soul that he hadn’t, until recently, realized was even there. How about that? The solution had been right under his nose for the past four years.
He had a momentary thought to tell Illya, but then Illya opened his mouth and Napoleon’s tongue slid into it as though it belonged there, and all thought fled except for pleasing this man in his arms; not only right now, but for the rest of his life.
======================================
Napoleon was half awakened by the early morning sun in his eyes. It always shone directly into the bedroom window at this time of year. He rolled over to avoid it and encountered a warm lump that smelled of sex and sweat. Now he was fully awake and smiling.
Memories of last night caused his morning erection to harden even further. He had found the fireworks, all in shades of blue, in Illya’s eyes; the electricity had sparked between their bodies as his lover moved inside him, the lightning flashing and the thunder clapping as they came simultaneously; bells pealed quietly, but joyfully, as they snuggled together, basking in the afterglow; kissing and whispering sweet, filthy words of love.
Illya stirred, interrupting his reverie. “What’s for breakfast?” he mumbled sleepily.
Napoleon ruffled the disheveled blond hair. “Are you nothing but one big stomach?” he chuckled.
“I would think,” Illya stated imperiously, “that, after last night, you would know better.”
Abruptly, he turned and looked at the bedside clock, then jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “I have to go in early today,” he called over his shoulder, in explanation.
“How come?” Napoleon demanded petulantly; his fantasy of an encore of last night’s performance, before work, disappearing in a puff of smoke.
“I want to catch The Old Man before things start hopping.” he replied. “I need to talk him into allowing me to withdraw that HR-32-WP form.”
The reminder that Illya had, if only briefly, wanted to push him out of his life caused the corners of Napoleon’s mouth to droop into a frown. Although he didn’t envy him the task of standing under their boss’s scrutinizing gaze, trying to explain his reason for submitting the requisition; he wasn’t overly concerned that Waverly would hold Illya to his request. After all, he did say that he would sit on it for a few days, and he didn’t seem all that keen on splitting them up.
It did rankle, though, that Illya had chosen Victor over himself. He obviously hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time, still…
Illya stopped in the doorway on his way back into the bedroom to retrieve his scattered clothing. It took his quick mind but a few seconds to put two and two - his previous remark and the look on Napoleon’s face - together, and come up with the fact that he needed to set one last thing to rights.
“Napoleon,” he called softly, “I have a confession to make. When you asked me about my request for a new partner, I thought it would be easier for both of us if I let you believe that I preferred Victor’s presence in my life to yours. That was never the case. The reason I wanted to dissolve our partnership was to protect you. Every time Victor found out we were together, his anger was fiercer and more violent than the time before. I couldn’t go on living with the idea that he may, at any time, turn on you.
A miniscule amount of left over disquiet slipped briefly onto Illya’s countenance, making Napoleon glad he hadn’t mentioned the attack in the parking garage, and causing him to resolve that he never would.
“It’s funny,’ Illya continued, “after our first affair together, I made a silent pledge that, should it ever become necessary, I would gladly make the ultimate sacrifice for you. Until I signed my name to that form, I believed my life to be that sacrifice. However, the handful of hours during which I had given away all rights to you showed me otherwise. I fear that I may never find the strength to endure that again.”
“Illya,” Napoleon breathed, and moved to wrap his arms around his, still naked, partner. “Are you saying that you love me?”
Illya lifted his head and gazed into the warm chocolate eyes. “Did I forget to mention that?” he grinned, and then his face grew very serious. “Yes, Napoleon, I love you. And thank you for rescuing me, yet again.”
“Well, that’s a first, “Napoleon quipped, feigning bewilderment. “You have never thanked me before, unless you were exercising your infamous flair for sarcasm.”
“I know.” Illya grew thoughtful. "This time is different, though. Up until now, you have rescued me from physical pain and, even, death. Physical pain is temporary, and can be endured; and I accepted, long ago, that it is unlikely I shall ever have need of my pension fund.” Glittering indigo met pensive sienna in a moment of purest empathy. “I had many happy hours with Victor, and I know that he truly loved me; but when his jealousy began to show itself… well, the best way I can explain it is to relate a recurring nightmare that began about six months ago.”
“I am all alone, in the middle of an endless ocean. It is completely still and quiet, except for the nerve rending monotony of the lapping water. It feels as though I have been there for a very long time. There is nothing in sight, except for one lone, metal pole, to which I am desperately clinging. Every now and then a boat materializes, as if by magic. It circles around me for a few minutes, close enough that I could reach out and touch it, as if taunting me. I move to let go of my pole - for I have been bereft of any other stability for so long, I think of it as mine - in an effort to grab onto the boat. At my slightest movement, the pole sprouts two very long, sharp nails that pierce my hands and trap me there. The pain in my hands, however, is always eclipsed by the pain in my heart, as the boat stops circling and I watch it disappear over the horizon. I am overwhelmed with sadness to know that, although the boat will keep returning, it will always go away again; leaving me nothing but the pole, to which I must cling to keep from drowning.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and fell silent.
“Is that the dream you had on the plane to Istanbul?” Napoleon asked, his voice subdued and Illya still firmly ensconced in his embrace.
Illya nodded his head, as if the long narrative had exhausted him.
“You know,” Napoleon grinned slightly, “I have been called a lot of things before, but never a boat.”
“That is a very astute observance,” Illya answered, a hint of surprise in his voice.
“Well,” Napoleon replied, “I don’t know how ‘astute’ I’ve been. There’s one thing you can count on, though. I’ve stopped circling.”
“And I,” Illya stopped to punctuate his thought with a quick kiss, “have let go of that pole.”